


The Council

by DaneelsSoul



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Rap, Too many copies of the same character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaneelsSoul/pseuds/DaneelsSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The counsel you would have another keep, first keep yourself. " -proverb.<br/>Or what happens when paradox space creates too many copies of the same person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Council

=> Dave wake up

You wake with a splitting headache. This entering the medium shit is harder than it looks. At least the flying skateboard got you back onto the roof. Somehow. You sit up, and take in the new world around you, full of metal gears and lava. Well, shit. At least it's no hotter than Texas. You stand up as your head begins to clear. After stumbling around for a bit, you notice a note taped to his chest. Where the hell did that come from? Did you just chip your teeth and get an IOU from the tooth fairy? In any case, there's no point in standing around puzzling over it like a monkey with a wristwatch. You pull the thing off of you and take a read.

hey partys here at 11:53:25. be there or miss out on all the sick beats and cool moves. and dont just stand there like a tool watching paint dry for the next 20 hours. youre a hero of god damn fucking time. just feel the rhythm of the clock and twist it like a shitty bottlecap. youll find your way.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Just play pretend like there was a clock on a merry-go-round, running in circles until everyone pukes? Yeah, that's not gonna do-

And suddenly everything changes. You find yourself in a dark room. The smell of sulfur and rusty metal still fills your nose, so you can't have gone far, but it's darker than an old record coated in tar at midnight and you can't see a damn thing. You reach out hoping to find a wall or something to steady yourself on. Then as if on cue the beat begins to sound. A deep, steady, base rumbling through your entire body. Real serious shit. Next the lights come on, revealing turntables manned by a boy in dark glasses and a sharp red suit. At the edge of the light you can barely make out the rows of seats, packed with shadowy figures. Some fucking party man. The dude up front begins to speak.

I know that all you dopes have been around here before,  
so I'll try to be brief and I'll try to not bore.

This game that we are playing has some trouble going on.  
So we'd better make some battle plans like at the pentagon.

And you all know a paradox is vicious problematic,  
So let's try to keep your statements fucking short and enigmatic.

You hear a shuffling sound off to your left, and turn around in time to see a spotlight shining its little circle into the crowd, revealing one of its members with dark glasses, dark suit and mic in hand. The pool of light also reveals the seats around him filled with blond shadesed heads, like some kinda weird yellow grass with a vision problem. The standing one waits a beat to ensure the attention of the others and then raps out his own words.

The trolls that are a-hating they are not all quite the same.  
And this one in particular's a radical dame.

As she does all her typing shit, advising electronically,  
You think that you could jam with her quite nearly unironically.

As you two are a chatting, with her nose up in your biz,  
You start to realize how much you this picture really is.

The spotlight flickers off only for a new one to appear at the other side of the ring. Refocusing your attention, you see another boy standing in the light. Blond hair, dark glasses, dark suit. Is there some kind of fucking dress code here? This one holds a gleaming sword in the air as he starts to speak.

Behold the noble bladekind, the weapon of a bro.  
The only thing you need to wield to be a true hero.

It breaks my heart. I'm sad to say, that life is not for you.  
For every shitty sword you find will promptly snap in two.

With those last words, the speaker twists something at the sword's hilt, and the top half of the blade vanishes. The light flickers out again and reappears over a spot at the edge of the stage. The light just sorta chills there no need to actually illuminate anything useful or anything. Seeing things is overrated anyway. A couple of beats pass and then someone appears out of nowhere, suspended in the beam of the spotlight. The interloper drops like a stone, landing hard on the stage floor. With some effort he manages to pull himself up onto his elbows and make his own words.

Listen up you assholes, I come from times of doom,  
And I can tell this shitty stage is gonna be my tomb.

But listen to my sage advice if you don't want to croak,  
Don't ever lick Jade's purple frog. Not even as a joke.

With that, he collapses onto the floor. The MC's voice booms through the darkness "A moment of silence for our fallen comrade." The crowd stills, and the room is silent except for the ongoing rhythm of the backbeat. You spend the time to take a careful look at the newcomer. Is he wearing your shirt? What the fuck, man? What the fuck? Eventually, the spotlight dims and then refocuses again on the crowd. The focus this time, is wearing some sort of shining rainbow armor. What the hell? Is that made of boonbucks stapled together?

All the other shitheads are simply out of luck,  
For we'll all soon be filthy rich like fucking Scrooge McDuck.

Chillin' on the floor with the transactions that we aid in,  
We should all get locked away for sweet insider tradin'.

With a nak nak here and a nak nak there,  
We'll be hauling cash away from fucking everywhere.

The spotlight shifts again. This new speaker also seems to be wearing one of your god damn shirts. That copycat shit is not cool. You're gonna need a new wardrobe soon or you'll look like a poser. A beat passes before the raps resume.

He comes from a far future where the gloom is in the air.  
It doomed us all the moment that the game had lost its Heir.

It turns out your truest mentor was your own self all along,  
Put faith in Mr. orange, and he'll never steer you wrong.

The spotlight changes locations again. Or maybe not. All you know for sure is that there's now a glaring bright light pointed right into your eyes. Even through your shades it's like fucking Hiroshima. You squint and shade your eyes with your arm, but it's not like you can actually make anything out in the darkness over there. The voice of the MC comes booming out of the black, filling up the room.

Now put your hands together for the new kid on the block.  
As you may all remember, he is in a kind of a shock.

He is young and he is green, having so much still to learn,  
But when his journey's over, this position he will earn.

The crowd breaks into cries. One heckler shouts above the din "Dude, he's like a week younger than you." The blinding light finally fades from your eyes, and the spotlight returns to the center of the stage. The MC replies "Not all time runs the same. You should know that as well as anyone." The cheering dies down and the MC begins again.

You all have been a pleasure. Party's made of fucking gold.  
And a hundred times and after it has never gotten old.

But there's swords still to be broken and are boonbucks yet to snatch,  
So you'd better up and at 'em, and be out before the scratch.

...  
...

No, really I mean it.   
Shit's going down soon.  
Time to fuck off. 

The lights come on, and your ears fill with popping sounds as the crowd rapidly disappears into thin fucking air. Suddenly, only you and the MC are left. You approach the podium cautiously, and finally get a good look at the ringmaster of this crazy circus only to see your own damn face smirking back at you. "You mind explaining to me what the fuck I just saw there?" you demand. He just looks back and replies "Don't worry young padawan, it will all make sense in time. You've certainly got plenty of that."

Your doppelganger steps away from the podium and approaches you. He continues, "You'd better be off too. Come back whenever you need. Oh, and do you think you can work the lights next time?" You are about to respond when the MC snaps his fingers. The beat sorta crunches together in your head and there's a twisting in your innards as the steady rhythm draws you away back to the roof where you came from.

What a fucking mess. What a bunch of smug assholes. With their snazzy duds, and sick beats. And those speakers that could devastate a small country. Oh god, you can hardly wait to go back.

**Author's Note:**

> Future chapters will be about different characters and will be added if I ever get around to it. They should be totally independent plot-wise, but will follow the theme of having a small army of copies of the same character meeting up.


End file.
